Last Man Standing
by Elros Tar-Minyatur
Summary: Winter, 3016. A routine patrol of the Eastfold becomes a fierce fight for survival against an Easterling sorcerer. R for violence, rape, and gore.
1. Departure

Last Man Standing  
Chapter 1  
On a cold winter morning in Edoras, a crowd of people gathered near the east gate to see off the first Mark Patrol of the New Year. Already, the members of the patrol had gathered, spears glinting brightly in the mid- winter sun, clouds of steam rising from the mouths of their horses. Èomer, son of Éomund, nephew of Théoden King, sat slightly apart from the others. This was to be his first Mark Patrol, and, as any young man would be, he was eager and raring to go.  
Also like every other young man, he was scared, scared beyond reason, but he would not show it.  
Terrible things had happened to Mark Patrols in bygone years, and as the stories of the survivors (if any) were told and retold by the fire, they were burned deep into the subconscious of every young boy. Èomer had grown up on these tales of dismemberment, torture, and devastating pain and loss, and it was understandable for him to be nervous plunging into the very stuff of his nightmares. Of course, no member of any Mark Patrol had been killed in a hundred years.  
A little voice in the back of his mind piped, 'We're about due.'  
He shook the thought away and concentrated on his Patrol-mates. There was his cousin on his father's side, Rhyfelwr; he was the image of a man's man, tall, intelligent, powerful, fluid. He was the largest member of the Patrol other than Tarren, who was a huge rock of man, known to take blows from orc spears and pikes and shake them off like insect stings. Next to him was Saethwr, one of the best archers in the Riddermark, re- checking his equipment one last time before they left.  
Èomer did this also, peering into his saddle bag at the equipment he had packed. He had a change of clothes, an extra cloak, several rolls of soft gauze, provisions for two weeks in the form of whey bread, a dagger, a coil of rope, a blanket, two spare pairs of woolen socks, a sewing kit, a bit of gold, should he need to barter goods, and a small bottle of ale, for use as a disinfectant. Satisfied that he had everything he needed, he turned back to his fellow Patrol members, and smiled. After all, he wasn't the youngest one here. He turned to look at Ilanc, a very young man, no more than eighteen years. His parents were killed when an avalanche engulfed their home on the west side of the White Mountains, leaving him to his relatives in Edoras, when he was only five years old.  
He had volunteered for this and, like Èomer, was exceedingly nervous. Unlike Èomer, he was making no secret of it, going over the tales in his head again and again, until he seemed near hyperventilation. Èomer pitied him, as he was obviously having second thoughts about the whole thing, although it was far too late to back out.  
At a light tap on his shoulder, Èomer whirled around, hand on the hilt of his sword. A smiling Thèodred stood behind him, empty hands out, and Èomer relaxed. His cousin threw his arm around his shoulder.  
"Don't be so nervous Èomer," Thèodred said, "You're in good hands, the best. Rhyfelwr has done this many times, and so has Saethwr. And just being around Arwrwas is enough to make you throw yourself against overwhelming odds. You'll be fine. And besides," he added, as an afterthought, "Nobody has died on one of these things for a hundred years."  
"Well, then I guess we're due."  
The words in Èomer's head were spoken by another. Marwdyn, a short, pale man, with black hair unusual for the Rohirric people, had voiced them. He was a grim man, full of fear and hate. Not surprising, his brother was Grima, whom all named the Wormtounge, an up and rising councilor in the Court at Meduseld. Èomer did not like Marwdyn, or his brother for that matter, as he had caught the older man gazing appraisingly at his younger sister, Èowyn.  
Ever the overprotective brother, Èomer had immediately labeled the man a threat to the innocence of his sister and forbade her to go anywhere near him. For the moment, Grima had the sense to stay away from Èowyn, knowing all too well what would await him should he lay hand upon her. Other men knew as well, but they were covered in long grass on the edges of the barrow fields, and all of it was hushed by Théoden. The fact that Marwdyn looked so much like his brother automatically put Èomer on guard, and readily opposed to whatever opinion the other presented.  
Thèodred must have felt Èomer tense, for he tightened his grip on the young man's shoulder. He too had no taste for Grima or his older brother. "What do you mean Dunlending?" he spat, using traditional insults to show his extreme dislike of the man. They had no effect, however, for Marwdyn was Dunlending and he knew it.  
"What I mean," he said softly in a soothing tone, "is that statistically, every year that passes without any deaths," he paused for dramatic effect, "the odds become even more stacked against us. It has to happen sooner or later."  
'And,' said the little voice in Èomer's head, 'the orcs have been more active this year than ever before.' He did not voice this aloud; he would not give the grim man the pleasure of knowing that he was afraid. So instead, in a steady, quiet, and very dangerous voice, he said, "Odds remain the same, Dunlending, unless something tips the balance one way or the other."  
"What are you suggesting little rider? That I am in service of the enemy?" Marwdyn managed to pull off a mock hurt face and tone, but it was to no avail; Èomer saw the flash of fear in his eyes. Here was a man in league with the enemy. Èomer made a mental note to watch him, resisting his primal urge to kill the short pale man where he stood. There was always time for that later, on the patrol, where it could be made to look like an accident. He gritted his teeth, "It wouldn't surprise me Dunlending."  
Marwdyn shrugged off the insult and smiled. "Think what you like, Little Rider," he said as he walked his horse to stand near his brother for a last whispered council.  
"I could kill him," Èomer growled, "I could snap his Dunlendish neck. . ." he twisted the reins in his hand. Thèodred nodded, "And I would hold him down while you did it. . ." "I could make it look like an accident," Èomer cut him off, "Maybe I could even get them both. You know, when they were out riding together or some such thing. Did you see his eyes when I accused him of being in the enemy's service?"  
Thèodred nodded again, "I saw his eyes. There is no questioning it. He and his brother are spies. I'll tell my father if I can get him alone for a moment about the two of them." He moved in closer, conspiratorially, "And in the meantime, you keep both of your eyes on Marwdyn, and see if you can get Rhyfelwr or Tarren to do the same. And whatever you do, do not let him wander off on his own, who knows what he could be doing."  
Èomer nodded and shook his cousins hand off his shoulder, "I wouldn't dream of it Thèodred." He smiled fiercely, "He won't even relieve himself without my knowing."  
Thèodred smiled and clapped Èomer on the back, "That's the spirit, though it is a little over-zealous," he smiled weakly, as if the thought of Èomer spying on Marwdyn relieving himself was enough to turn his stomach, "But, let me give you one last going away gift." From out of one of his inside cloak pockets he took two small bottles. One was made of glass, and was glowing with an unnatural white light, and the other was leather bound, and swished as though it contained liquid. "The leather one contains miruvor, a powerful drink that reenergizes even the weariest. Use it sparingly, and only at great need. You'll probably have no use for it, seeing as the entire trip should only last two weeks, but I think it's good for you to have something like that on hand. The glass one contains the light of Eärendil's star. Heavens forbid that you should need it, but once again, it's probably a good idea to have it." He handed the bottles to Èomer gingerly, "Careful! These are very high gifts from the Lady of the Golden Wood."  
At this, Èomer very nearly did drop both bottles, and only his quick reflexes saved both from falling and smashing on the ground. This statement had shocked him to the bone, he knew Thèodred often claimed that he visited the Golden Wood at times, but Èomer had never believed him. He stared at the bottles, gazing at the irrefutable proof that his cousin had indeed visited the forest of Lothlorien. He gazed up at Thèodred, "She. . . she gave them to you? The White Lady of the Golden Wood?"  
Thèodred nodded, "Yes, and I think that you will have more need for them than I." Èomer smiled, "Is that a prediction?" Thèodred shook his head, "No, just a hunch." He looked up and then turned back to Èomer, "It looks like Father is ready to give you lot 'the mission'. I'll see you in a few weeks then." The two embraced and Thèodred walked in the direction of his father. Èomer moved to stand next to Rhyfelwr, his elder cousin acknowledging his presence with a nod.  
Théoden, King of Rohan, slowly climbed the steps to the wide lintel atop the gate, burdened by a heavy fur cloak and aided by the Captain of his Guard, Háma. When at last he stood above the crowds, all bowed before him. Théoden waved his hand in a wide half-circle, encompassing all of the Patrol members. "You," he said, "Have been entrusted with the task of reviewing the defense of the Noble Kingdom of Rohan." Overwhelming cheers of false enthusiasm greeted Théoden's opening words. He silenced the noise with a wave of his hand, "You have already been given your task, go forth and complete it!"  
Èomer frowned, 'That was different. I expected it to go on longer than that.' He glanced over at Wormtounge and Marwdyn, still sitting in quiet conference. He couldn't shake the feeling that maybe they had something to do with. . . well everything that went sour in Rohan these days.  
Soon, the Mark Patrol mounted up and rode single file out of the city, waving their spears in salute to the King. They rode down the slope, over the plains, past a barrow field, and they were gone from sight. Théoden turned away and muttered softly, "Háma, I cannot shake the feeling that I have just sent those men to their deaths." He shuffled down the steps, leaving Háma standing above the gates alone. A shadow fell over the eastern horizon where he had last seen the Mark Patrol. About him blew a fell wind, and he turned to follow Théoden, saying, "You might be right my lord, you might be right."  
An east wind buffeted the Mark Patrol almost from the start. Èomer drew the hood of his cloak tighter around his face, hunching down against his horse's neck. Somewhere behind him he could here Marwdyn muttering something about east winds and their evils. Èomer was sorely tempted to say something along the lines of 'Yes, we carry one with us!' but once again he buttoned his lip and hunched closer to his horse.  
They rode on in stolid silence for hours on end, faces blown raw from the wind. Èomer blew on his numb hands to keep them from freezing to his reins, as they seemed threaten to do. After what seemed like an age, Rhyfelwr finally called a halt for the night. Èomer jumped from the saddle, tended to his horse, led him to a patch of ground where the grass was still edible, and left the horse to graze. He took cover under a patch of scrub, leafless in early January, and wrapped his blanket around himself, leaned against the saddle he had removed earlier, and slept.  
  
The next morning, Èomer was shaken into wakefulness by the last member of their party, Dialgar, a tall man, grim, but not at all like Marwdyn. He sought revenge for the murder of his family by Dunlendings several years earlier, up by the River Isen. He had told Èomer the story of how he had found no less than a score of Dunlendings feasting in his family's homestead, the mutilated bodies of his father and younger brother nailed to the wall on either side of the door. He had charged in, recklessly, and slew every Dunlending in a fit of righteous rage. And every time he spoke of it, without fail, he broke down into sobs at the thought of finding the raped and murdered bodies of his sister and mother up in the loft, lying on the bloodstained straw, sightless eyes staring at the thatched roof. Èomer looked on the man with pity, knowing what it was like to lose a loved one to the enemy. But now Dialgar wore a broad smile on his face as he tweaked Èomer's ear, "Wake young Prince! We have wasted all the time we shall here! There are still many miles before we reach tonight's destination!"  
Èomer grumbled softly at being moved woken from sleep, re-saddled his horse and mounted up, saying to Dialgar as he did so, "And what destination would that be, another patch of barren ground like this." He gave Dialgar a mock frown, the other smiled, and they rode off, single file.  
That day passed much like the first, a short break at noon, then rest for the night called long after dark. Once again, Èomer merely wrapped himself in his blanket, and slept. He was woken a few hours later by Saethwr, telling him that it was his turn for watch.  
Èomer sat for the next few hours in the darkness, staring out beyond the circle of saddles. He felt a nameless dread claw on him for a second, he could have sworn he saw eyes in the blackness, but the feeling passed as swiftly as it had come. He looked into the night and he felt his own mortality. Finally his watch ended and he softly woke Arwrwas, re-wrapping his blanket about him and slowly drifting into sleep.  
That morning he was woken once more by Dialgar, telling him that he needed to get a move on, they weren't spending any more time there. Èomer saddled his horse, mounted and they rode off single file along a faint path. Ilanc, from his place three horses up from Èomer called out, "Hey Rhyfelwr! What is our destination tonight?" This earned him a resounding smack from Tarren, sitting directly behind him. "Idiot!" Tarren hissed "Keep your mouth shut! If we're going to survive, we're surviving by being stealthy!"  
"It's alright," said Rhyfelwr from his place at the front of the column, "If the lad can't speak here, than where can he speak? We're less than three days away from Edoras, Tarren. The enemy's arm must be long indeed if he can reach out and grab us here. However," he turned awkwardly in his saddle to look at Ilanc, "Tarren is right. Once we are more than a day away from Edoras, we speak only softly, unless we are in a settlement. Is this clear Ilanc?"  
The young man gulped, "As crystal sir."  
"Good. I foresee no further problems then," he saw the look of concern on Ilanc's face and softened, "This is only a precaution. I don't think we'll have any problems with orcs or Dunlendings this time. Remember, our mission is only to asses the defensive status of the Mark, nothing more. We are not to engage in combat unless absolutely necessary. We have a mission to complete, and we can't afford to lose many, if any." At his last words he glanced decisively at Marwdyn, then continued, "Our destination tonight is a small village on the bank of the Entwash, we are to review their defensive capability and importance to the Kingdom, rest there for the night, and move on tomorrow morning. Only for a few nights will we ever be sleeping out in the open, so don't bother getting used to it. I hope that answers your question Ilanc, and a few more besides."  
Ilanc nodded, "Yes sir," he said softly, "I understand now." Èomer shook his head and huddled down against the soft neck of his horse, waiting out the wind.  
  
Around mid-afternoon, it began to snow heavily. The Mark Patrol grumbled at the change for the worse in weather, and stolidly rode on. They slogged through several heavy snowdrifts later in the evening, coming out onto a wide, flat plain as opposed to the rocky and hilly terrain they had just come through. On the edge of their vision, they saw a small group of lights. Rhyfelwr smiled and pointed ahead, "Well, here we are. Only a few hours work ahead, and then some sleep."  
They rode into the sole street of the village, met by a throng of people shouting thanks and praise for their bravery. Èomer, Ilanc, and Dialgar, being the three youngest, blushed and nodded their regards, but the other five remained stolidly silent, having become accustomed to this sort of treatment.  
Rhyfelwr stopped his horse and waited until Èomer was level with him, "Èomer," he said softly, "Take Ilanc and Dialgar to the outskirts of town, see what kind of patrol or guard they keep on their horses, then report back to me."  
He was about to ride off when Èomer grabbed his arm, "Listen, Rhyfelwr, this morning, just before we left, Thèodred and I, we saw Marwdyn, and when I accused him of being in the service of the enemy. . ." he paused, "We both saw the flash of fear in his eyes, he's with the enemy." Rhyfelwr shook his head, "Èomer, I know it's very easy not like the man and be suspicious of him, but he's been on other Mark Patrols with me before, and I trust him well enough," at the pleading look in Èomer's eyes, he said, "But I will keep an eye on him, don't worry. Now go and look at those defenses." He rode off towards the town hall.  
Èomer gathered Dialgar and Ilanc and together the three rode their weary horses to the edge of town. There, they found a herd of almost three hundred horses, unguarded. "So where are the guards?" asked Ilanc softly. Èomer shook his head in disgust, "I don't know. How could they leave such beautiful creatures alone and defenseless?"  
"Look out past the horses," said Dialgar, pointing to the north, "There is the Snowburne River, to the east it the Entwash, and to the west there is a guarded fence, these creatures are not without guard." It was true; there was a guarded fence, so the three rode over to check the garrison. There were two men, poorly armed and highly nervous. At the state of the town's defense, Èomer was appalled. He left the others to patrol the area and he rode back to town alone.  
When he reached the town hall, the other members of the Patrol were nowhere to be seen, save Marwdyn and Rhyfelwr. Both were in feasting and conversing with the town elders, enjoying themselves and filling their bellies. He came directly to Rhyfelwr, and made his report only to him, as ordered. Rhyfelwr seemed just as appalled as Èomer, and he turned to the town elders. "Are there no able men in this village to guard your horses? Have they all gone astray?" His voice was so accusatory that no elder could contain their shame. One, Breago, an old man with a long white beard and twinkling blue eyes stood and said, "I offer no excuses for our lack of vigilance, but this is not our fault."  
Èomer shook his head. Of course it was their fault, whose could it be? He took a seat in an elaborately carved wooden chair at the back of the hall and spoke his mind, "How can it not be your fault? You have three hundred horses under the guard of merely two rivers and two untrained men; you should be ashamed of yourselves. And where are your young men," he added as an afterthought, "I haven't seen a single one since our arrival."  
Breago sighed, "They are all gone. A rider came in last month, said he was from a group of villages that had banded together to resist orc raiders coming down from Emyn Muil. He asked for any aid we could spare, and being fellow Eastfolders, we could not refuse him anything we had, we sent away nearly sixty of ours, all armed and horsed. That was before Yule, and we have had no word yet, save a precious few bits and pieces of information that have trickled back to us." He sighed again and sat down at the head of the table, head in his hands. Rhyfelwr and Èomer exchanged a look of alarm. If there were enough orc raiders to threaten whole confederations of villages, there were certainly enough of them to utterly annihilate their little inspection patrol. Rhyfelwr said shakily, "Did he say anything more, about anything?"  
Breago shook his head, "No, and what little news that has trickled back to us is all bad." He sighed. "Several reports say that there is no one left." He looked down on his plate and said no more.  
Once again, Rhyfelwr and Èomer glanced at each other, the former making a subtle hand-gesture. Èomer nodded in reply, and slowly got up from his seat and without turning around, left the hall. He was joined moments later by Rhyfelwr. The older man looked white and pasty, and his knees shook as he walked, and not from the cold. Èomer raised an eyebrow.  
"What do you think?" Èomer asked after a long moment.  
Rhyfelwr shook his head, "I don't know about you Èomer, but I've been to those Eastfold villages to the west of Emyn Muil. I don't think there are any hardy folk in the Kingdom, save maybe the Westfolders in the old Púkel land east of the Mountains. If there are orcs enough to defeat them, then we have a problem on our hands. A problem unlike anything since the days of King Folca."  
"Perhaps these are might Uruks out of. . . Mordor."  
Rhyfelwr backhanded Èomer across the face viscously, "Idiot!" he hissed, "Do not speak of that cursed land." He turned away, stroking the loose stubble on his chin, "You may be right. We cannot rule out Uruks just yet." He turned to Èomer, "You do realize that it is our duty to investigate this, don't you?"  
Èomer merely nodded, words seemed to light for the gravity of the situation.  
"Good," said the other, "Alert the others. We're leaving in the morning for the Eastfold."  
"Sir," Èomer said, turned and walked off to complete this task, leaving Rhyfelwr alone with his thoughts. 


	2. Fright and Fight

Chapter 2  
  
The next morning dawned cold and bright. The Mark Patrol quickly prepared for a long ride, and a fight at the end, after a short breakfast. Nobody saw them off. Nobody wanted to get attached to the new sacrificial lamb, as the Patrol was seen as. They rode again in silence, in single file, out of the village and over the Entwash where the ice was frozen. Èomer frowned, if they failed, not even the rivers would be left to defend their people.  
Èomer then broke a primary rule of the Patrol, he rode out of his position near the rear of the line and rode up to speak with Rhyfelwr, who was, as always, riding point. Rhyfelwr turned and looked at him sternly, "What is it," he barked after a moment.  
Èomer pointed vaguely in the direction of Edoras, "We should send someone back to let them know of our predicament, send Ilanc, I don't think he'll be much use in a fight."  
Rhyfelwr nodded, "But I would like to get rid of Marwdyn. As you said, he's not to be trusted. I am going to order the both of them to go back and let the King or perhaps Thèodred know of our situation. But not yet. I'd like to see what the problem is before we get them all worked up. Now get back in line, tell the others you thought you saw something, just light playing off the snow, nothing more."  
Èomer nodded and rode back to his place in the line. Ilanc leaned forward, "What did he say Èomer?"  
Èomer looked from side to side, then leaned in closer to the other man, "Ilanc, I want you to be ready to ride at any time of the day or night."  
"Where to?"  
"Edoras."  
"Why?"  
"It doesn't matter why. All that matters is that when I give you a signal, you ride back to Edoras and let them know that we're in trouble. Tell them to send Thèodred and an éored to the east. Can you do that?"  
"I would feel better if I knew. . ."  
"Can you do it?"  
Ilanc swallowed heavily, "Yes, I can."  
Èomer clapped the younger man on the back, "Good! Be ready for a signal at any time. Tell no one!" And with that, he leaned away and turned his head back to the road ahead.  
  
Two more days of this sort passed. The woods and rivers of the foothills of the White Mountains faded into vast, empty, snow-covered plains. Both nights Èomer could not sleep, for fear the camp would be overrun be fell beasts while he dozed. That nameless fear he had felt the second night returned to haunt him, even in the daylight hours. Even the empty plains, where one could see a hare bounding over the dead grass from a league off, gave off a threatening aura.  
Èomer took to staring into space, thinking of what could possibly have wiped out a confederation of hardy Eastlanders. He spoke these thoughts aloud only once, and then only to Rhyfelwr, who laughed and said, "Village gossip and superstition Èomer, pay it no mind. Those villagers will do anything during the winter, given how unexciting their lives are. Ignore it. Besides, probably none of it was true. It didn't sound very chilling to me," but he didn't seem entirely sure of himself. Èomer knew that he himself was unwilling to let go of the long kept thought that Rohan was unassailable, but he felt in his heart that something had happened.  
The night of the fifth day, Èomer had sentry again. They had no fire, their horses were specially trained to make no noise, and yet he had an overwhelming feeling that something was walking towards them. Something dark and terrible. Something that wasn't alone.  
He leaned over and shook Ilanc into wakefulness, covering the younger man's mouth with his hand and putting a finger to his lips. He pointed over to behind a small rise where he felt the presence. He made a gesture for Ilanc to wait, then walked over to the nearest horse and forced it to lie down. Ilanc did the same, and soon, the whole camp was indistinguishable from the plain it was on. Èomer made the same gesture and stealthily made his way to the rise, drawing his sword as he did so. The cold steel of the blade glinted softly in the moonlight.  
He dropped to his hands and knees, sword still in his right hand, and he peeked over the crest of the rise.  
Nothing.  
Absolutely nothing.  
And he had gotten all worked up over it. He collapsed and turned over to lie on his back, filled with relief, smiling sleepily as the adrenaline of the moment wore off. He waved the all clear to Ilanc. The other smiled in pure relief and moved off to let the horses get back up.  
Then Èomer felt it again.  
And this time it was clear that Ilanc had felt it too, for the other man had fallen to the ground, grasping his heart. And this time it was much, much stronger, so strong that the two young men could do nothing but lay on the ground, paralyzed with fear.  
Using all of his considerable willpower, Èomer force himself to move his head to the East, from where the fear was greatest. He wished he hadn't.  
Less than a league away, a small town was burning. The yellow and red flames washed over the plains, shining like a beacon in the dark of night. Images flashed before his young eyes, images of terrible things that should never be done to another being.  
He saw a man, stomach slashed open, being fed his own pancreas by shadowy figures, crying in pain and terror and shock as one shadow reached into him and yanked, hand coming free covered in blood, holding a liver. The man sank against the wall of a flaming thatched cottage, dying slowly in a pool of red blood.  
He saw two young women dragged out of cottage while the shadows threw flaming brands into the roof, laughing as they sputtered and then took hold. The shadows that threw the women down on the ground laughed at them and tore at their victims' clothes. Then, in turn, a line of men raped them. The last man, the largest, raped them so that Èomer could hear the screams for real, albeit faintly. When he had finished having them, he drew cruel looking scimitar from his belt and shoved it into the first. She screamed, and the other looked over and cried in terror. The large shadow continued to stab the first woman until the body was unrecognizable and then moved on to the second. It made large hacking strikes at the woman, hacking until pools of blood stained even the ground beneath the snow red. It laughed and kicked at the carcass, stabbed it with its scimitar. Its fellows did the same, laughing and pointing and stabbing and hacking. Èomer felt his bile rising into his throat. Somewhere over to his left, he could hear Ilanc vomiting loudly. He put all his will to looking away from the horrible visions, but found that he could not.  
The visions continued. He saw more shadows standing around another man, joking and taunting him. The man cried and begged for mercy, but none was forthcoming. One shadow ran over to a burning shed, entered, and came back with a crude saw, black from the heat of the blaze. Èomer closed his eyes, but the sight burned through his eyes directly into his brain. The shadow slowly sawed into the left ankle of the prisoner, resulting in a cry of pain from the man. It worked its way up, cutting off two to three inches at a time on first the left and then the right leg. The snow melted under the rush of blood. Cruelly, the shadow sawed off each finger, one at a time, holding them up to its victim's face. It then repeated the same process on the arms, sawing off an inch at a time. Èomer couldn't hold his gorge any longer, he felt it rise up through his throat and pass out onto his jerkin. The shadow howled with laughter at the dying man's pleads for a swift death. It made a small cut along the back of the neck, then moved down to cut a large gash in the man's chest. The cries were feebler now. It repeated that process over and over again. Èomer found himself vomiting uncontrollably, and he could hear Ilanc doing the same. After what seemed like a life-age of the earth, the shadow finally decapitated its victim, who had already died minutes earlier of blood loss and shock, and threw back its head and howled with triumph and bloodlust.  
Èomer saw an older woman telling her two children to run, pushing them away from her as a group of the shadows approached. He saw her turn to the nameless things and raise her fists in defiance, it gave her offspring maybe twenty seconds while the things were busy hacking her to pieces. Her sacrifice was in vane, as Èomer saw a huge shadow bound up to the two children, grab them, and place one under each arm as its fellows shouted their encouragement. The spit the children through the loose skin on their backs, and to the accompaniment of their screams, roasted them alive.  
Èomer had no more in his stomach to rid himself of, but his gag reflex was still commanding him to vomit, so up came his stomach acid, burning his throat as he disgorged it from his esophagus.  
Then his heart froze and he could do no more than clutch it in desperation as he saw the most terrifying thing to happen yet. A giant shadow, more than twice the size of anything Èomer had seen yet, loomed above him, pointing down to where he writhed in pain and terror. Then Èomer understood how he was seeing all this, that, that thing was feeding it to him, or if not him specifically, than everyone in the area, as a message, a message that had the clearest point that could be imagined.  
You're Next.  
A desire to be as far away from that place as possible, as soon as possible, entered him, hot and demanding. He longed to run away, he longed to even move. The terror that was invoked in his heart was more pure than fresh fallen snow. He struggled, he battled, and he pushed with all his will and might. . .  
And suddenly, the feeling was gone.  
Èomer slumped back against the cold ground. He lay there in a pool of his own vomit, gasping for breath, staring up at the cloudless night sky. 'What just happened?' he wondered as he searched for the strength to sit up. He eventually found it, and rose up from the stinking mess he had left, the acids from his stomach slowly dissolving the dead grass in which he had been laying. He stumbled weakly over to Ilanc, who was weeping softly near one of the horses. He extended an arm, which was weakly accepted. He used most of his remaining strength to haul the younger man to his feet. Ilanc nodded his thanks, "What in the name of the King was that?"  
Èomer merely shrugged.  
"What does it mean?"  
Èomer looked over at the columns of flame burning in the distance. "It means," he said at last, "That there's going to be hell to pay tomorrow as soon as the others wake up."  
"Should I go ride to Edoras, then?"  
Èomer shook his head, then stopped, it really hurt. It was as though the terrible sights that were now burned permanently into his brain had also swelled his brain. "No, I wouldn't send you out alone, especially with that. . . that. . . thing out there."  
Ilanc's voice lowered, "You. . . saw it too?"  
Èomer would have hissed had he had the energy, "Speak no more of it, Ilanc. I'm going to send you at the break of day. Before the others wake, go to Edoras, but have Thèodred bring every man in the whole Mark!"  
Ilanc managed a salute, placing the index and middle fingers of his right hand parallel to his right temple, with what little might remained to him, "As ordered sir," and with that he collapsed into a heap on the ground. Èomer stood above them all like a statue for nearly an hour, then fell over backwards, asleep.  
  
That morning, Rhyfelwr awoke to the smell of ash and recent flame. He sat up and sniffed the air, dusting a light falling of snow off of his blanket and out of his hair. There was something else on the air, vomit certainly, but something else, lingering just out of reach of memory. An odor of rotten cheese, no, flesh, rotting flesh. That smell was death. He sat up ramrod straight and grabbed his spear from its place at the right side of his bedding. He tripped over the unconscious form of Èomer as he ran toward the rise where Èomer had crouched the night before, transfixed with fear.  
Èomer woke instantly as the hard-toed boot of Rhyfelwr crashed into him just below the ribs. He sat up, adrenaline pumping, mind racing, his instincts telling him that he was under attack. He looked up, saw Rhyfelwr and grabbed his leg.  
"Rhyfelwr, you have to listen, we have to send Ilanc back!"  
Rhyfelwr shook Èomer's hands off his leg. He leaned down and lifted Èomer up off the ground, "What happened,"  
Èomer shook his head vigorously, it still hurt, but not as much, "No Rhyfelwr you don't understand! We're in grave danger here! We have to get out!"  
Rhyfelwr grabbed the other's shoulders and looked him directly in the eyes, "What happened?"  
"Ilanc, the feeling, cold, angry. . . fire, visions. . . true, people dying, heard their screams. . . true! And dark thing. . . petrifying, so dangerous, we have to get out!"  
Rhyfelwr took a small hip flask from his pocket and gave a few sips to Èomer, "Calm down. What happened, tell me everything, not just little fragments."  
Èomer took a few deep breaths and attempted to recollect his blurred memories of the previous night. Every attempt was an agony, the mere thought of the mutilated bodies lying in pools of blood made him want to vomit the few sips of Rohirrim whiskey that Rhyfelwr had just given him. He took a last breath, "Last night, while I was on sentry duty, this strange. . . feeling came over me. So I woke Ilanc and he helped me hid the camp. Then I looked over that rise over there," he pointed at the vomit stained grass of the small hill, "I saw a village a league away burning. That. . . feeling took over again, and I suddenly saw what was happening, what was happening over a league away. I saw, terrible things, and so did Ilanc." He lapsed into silence and for a long while he would say no more.  
Rhyfelwr waited patiently for a few minutes, then walked over towards the rise. Behind him Èomer spoke softly, "Then we saw him."  
Rhyfelwr whirled around, "Who? Who did you see?"  
Èomer shook his head, "I don't know, he was a shadow, black and huge. We saw a last sight of him, as though it was a warning to all those in the area. Then it all disappeared, and for a long time, we couldn't move. When I got up, I went over to help Ilanc, we talked for a while, and then we fell asleep."  
Rhyfelwr wore a face of deep concern, "We'd better go check that out, you and I. Leave the others."  
Èomer shook his head once more, "No, wake Arwrwas and Tarren and Saethwr. Leave one of them to watch over camp and we will ride horses to investigate."  
Rhyfelwr agreed that this was reasonable and went to wake the three. Saethwr remained in camp, and the other two mounted their horses while Èomer retrieved his sword from the dead grass of the rise. They rode in silence, not bothering to go in silence or single file. They galloped at full tilt across the plain.  
It was more than a league to the village that Èomer had seen the previous night, but they rode quickly, and they were there before the sun was fully up. They reached the ruined stockade and leaped from their horses. They walked through the burned out gates, their boots leaving heavy tracks in the new snow.  
Rhyfelwr turned to the others, a very weak smile on his face, "I guess it's a good thing I decided not to get all the way here last night. . ." he faded off into silence at the look on Tarren's face, a look of mixed pain and anger.  
"This was my home," Tarren said softly, his voice filled with bitterness and hatred, "Those bastards are going to die." It was a statement, not a vow or a promise. A simple fact.  
Èomer nodded, "But not before the eight of us die, it looks like."  
The others stared at him as he walked through the ruined streets, strewn with hacked and mangled corpses lying under their thin blanket of snow. He walked past houses that were little more than burned out frames, some with corpses inside. Leaning against one he saw the man that was force-fed his own organs, now a blackened corpse with a gaping hole in the lower torso. There were homes and businesses that were more or less intact, but the moment he stepped inside a large inn, he saw nothing more than the nude mutilated bodies of what were once the town's young women. He suppressed his instinct to vomit and backed slowly out the door.  
He looked back to see Tarren squatting over a body that still possessed many of its identifying marks his hand over its chest. As Èomer approached, the big man looked up. He gestured toward the body, "This man was my father's servant, a good man who had never done anything worse to anyone than spank naughty children when he was ordered to." Èomer noticed that tears were streaming down his companion's face, he squatted down next to him and patted the other on the back. Tarren shook his massive head and turned to Èomer, "Those bastards tore his heart out," he removed his hand from over the chest, revealing a gaping wound and an emptiness where something was supposed to be. Tarren looked back at the mangled carcass of the man who had taught him so much, "What kind of. . . creature does that to another living being," he turned to Èomer and snarled, "Tell me what kind of sick bastard would do that to a defenseless old man! Tell me Èomer!" His massive bulk collapsed against Èomer's shoulder.  
Arwrwas came up with a black helmet in his left hand. There was a large spike protruding from the center of the forehead, and smaller spikes on the neck-guard, on either side of the large spike were two Death's Heads with the Eye of Sauron in their lidless sockets. "Other men would do that." He said as he threw the helmet to the ground in front of Èomer, who picked it up and examined it. It was plated steel, very finely crafted, coated with tough leather on the inside, and a flexible neck-guard. Whoever those shadows were, they certainly weren't orcs.  
"Where did you get this?" he asked after a moment of examining the helmet.  
Arwrwas gestured over his shoulder, "Near the east gate, apparently they made their defense there. Rhyfelwr wants you to come have a look."  
Èomer pushed down on his knees to lever himself up and walked off with Arwrwas. Èomer turned back to Tarren. "Are you coming?"  
Tarren nodded absently, waving away Èomer, "I know where the east gate is. I'll meet you there after I take care of some business."  
Arwrwas nodded and walked off, grabbing Èomer by the arm and dragging him along. Èomer ran to get his horse, grabbing the reigns and leading it after Arwrwas. They walked in silence, speech was not necessary. The east gate wasn't far away, the pair arrived in a matter of minutes.  
Rhyfelwr stood on the ramparts of what was left of the stockade, looking down at the tangled mess of bodies before him. Arwrwas skirted the grisly soup, but Èomer walked straight through, letting go of his horse at the edge. There were bodies of many Rohirrim there, dressed in the traditional green and russet, and there were even a handful of Royal Guard, their gold-embroidered cloaks stained with their own blood. But scattered about them were black cloaked men, tall like the Gondorians, but less noble, less civilized. They bore spears and scimitars, and their shields were broad, etched with the same design as their helmets. Èomer squatted near one. The face was fair, but it had a fierce hatred to it that made it ugly, the hair was long and dark, but dank and unkempt, muscles bulged from beneath the black armor and tunic, but they had only the power to destroy. "Is this all of them?" he asked after a moment. "No," said Rhyfelwr, "There are more on the other side of the stockade. It seems that the archers on duty slew several before they themselves were lost. More were killed when more archers and spearmen arrived. Reinforcements for our side seemed to come only in small waves, so we were quickly overwhelmed." He looked significantly at Èomer, "We didn't have a chance." "No, I didn't think we would," he looked up at Rhyfelwr, "We have always been a scattered people, perhaps it is now time to unite to face this threat."  
"Perhaps," said Rhyfelwr, "We need to learn more. Arwrwas!"  
The big man looked up from examining one of the curved scimitars, "Sir?"  
"Find where these Easterlings left the village. Track it until you're sure it's the right path, and then return to us." He looked around, "Where is Tarren?"  
"I'm here."  
Arwrwas and Èomer turned to see Tarren, his shovel-like hands stained with dirt and blood. Sweat glistened on his smooth forehead.  
Rhyfelwr looked the other man up and down, "Where have you been?"  
The big man gestured over his shoulder, "I gave a friend of mine a decent burial," he looked over at Èomer, "I wasn't about to leave him to the crows and scavengers."  
Rhyfelwr nodded lightly and gave Arwrwas a small wave. The brave man was off like a shot, bounding over the burned logs and bodies as he tracked the main trail of the Eastmen. Rhyfelwr jumped from the ramparts, taking a small piece of glass from his satchel as he did so. He stood straight and made some minor adjustments to his stance. He then turned to the west, the White Mountains looming in the distance, and flashed the sunlight of the glass three times. It was answered moments later by three more flashes. This was the pre-arranged signal from Rhyfelwr to Saethwr that all was well and that he should head everyone out.  
Èomer turned back to look at the body, disbelieving that it could once have been one of those shadows in his visions last night. It looked so fair, so noble lying among the shorter and stockier Rohirrim. He reached down to touch the cold cheek, then suddenly recoiled as a slew of dead things, rotten, flashed across his field of vision. He walked away from the corpse and did not go again into the thicket of dead bodies.  
Arwrwas returned minutes afterwards, saying that the trail disappeared less than forty yards beyond the stockade. By this, all were baffled, and they pondered it until Saethwr arrived with the three other Patrollers. Saethwr, an experienced warrior, seemed un-moved by the carnage, as did Marwdyn. Ilanc had already seen it all last night, and while it was in action, so this seemed quite tame to him, but Dialgar walked through the wreckage wide-eyed, not believing what his eyes told him was real. He had seen death wreaked by wicked men before, but the Dunlendings seemed armatures compared to the black-swathed Easterlings lying here and there.  
When the whole command was together, Rhyfelwr mounted his horse and rode to the east with Arwrwas. Dialgar and Ilanc followed closely after, then Saethwr and Marwdyn, Tarren and Èomer bringing up the rear. Tarren, Èomer noticed, had a face set in stone; he was going to kill every one of the bastards. 'And I'm going to help him do it,' decided Èomer as he thought of the children burned alive or the man carved slowly to pieces while he yet lived. Those thoughts made his blood boil. He was working himself up into a rage when they suddenly stopped. He strained his neck to look forward and saw Arwrwas and Rhyfelwr had dismounted. He yanked his reins to the right and rode up to see what they were doing. Rhyfelwr was kneeling on the ground while Arwrwas said, ". . . And that's where the tracks disappear."  
Rhyfelwr stood up, "I see, but how?"  
"It's simple enough to wipe out your tracks; you just have to be clever enough to figure out the initial method."  
Rhyfelwr took off his helm and scratched his head, "Which leaves the more important question of how we find them."  
"Follow the burning village road I suppose."  
Everyone turned to stare at Èomer, as though he had a third arm suddenly sprouting from his chest. They followed his arm to a cloud of smoke on the horizon. It billowed up from a little hill enclosed valley.  
"Oh, Valar NO!" Shouted Rhyfelwr as he jammed his helm back onto his head. He swiftly jumped on to his horse and waved his spear at the roiling inky black smoke, "Forth Eorlingas! We may yet have time!"  
Èomer drew his sword, for he had lost his spear some time before. He waved it in the air and shouted, "To our kinsfolk!"  
They rode out at full gallop across the plain.  
  
Èomer reached the burning village first and he shouted fierce oaths as he leaped through the gates that were slowly burning into cinders. He skidded to a stop, the streets were deserted save for corpses and a few scavenger crows, who scattered at the clopping approach of his horse. The others arrived soon after. Èomer turned to them,  
"Come!" He said, "We must move on! We may catch them yet!"  
"And do. . . what? Little prince we are greatly outnumbered." The voice came from Marwdyn, brining up the rear of the party.  
Rhyfelwr looked at the small man with a frown on his stern features, "We will do what we can. Èomer is right, let us move on!"  
"They've left a clearer trail this time!" Cried Arwrwas from the gates, "Come quickly!"  
They rode swiftly, four men flanking either side of the tracks. Arwrwas led on the left side, Rhyfelwr on the right. They rode on without a stop for nearly for hours on end; the trail never changed. Soon darkness closed in around them, and they slowed their pace. Dialgar and Ilanc, being the youngest of the Patrol, began to get nervous, twitching at the slightest sounds, half-throwing their spears. Rhyfelwr gave them a stern glance, but, truth be told, he was nearly as nervous as they were.  
As the last rays of light began to fade from the sky, they reached a dense thicket of thick grass and scattered trees and shrubbery. Even Arwrwas was reluctant to enter the thicket. He looked over his shoulder, the smoking ruin of the two villages had disappeared from his range of vision. He shook his head, "No men could run this far in a day, perhaps I missed a path in the dark." Rhyfelwr leapt down from the saddle to examine the marks of the trail. He swallowed, hard. "No, they went through there all right."  
"Do you think we can go around?" The question came from young Ilanc, obviously petrified at the thought of having to enter the foreboding thicket.  
Rhyfelwr shook his head reluctantly, "No, we may lose their trail in the dark, we have no choice but to go through." He mounted his horse and un-strapped his shield from behind the saddle. He turned to look as the others did the same. He nodded to each one in turn, "Be swift, we may be ambushed. Stay together and stay with the trail." He turned, took a deep breath, spurred his horse, and plunged in.  
The trail became faint and split up almost before they entered the thicket. Twenty yards in, it failed completely. So the question was no longer, 'Will we be ambushed?' but 'When?'. Èomer drew his shield close to his heart. This was by no means his first combat, but these tall, pale Easterlings chilled him to the bone. Just the thought of their cruel scimitars slicing his flesh made him want to turn tail and run. But he stayed.  
It was the jumpiness of Dialgar and Ilanc that saved them. They were nearly two-hundred yards in, the darkness truly closing in, when Dialgar thought he saw a bush rustle. He jumped, yelled, and cast his spear. By pure chance, it hit an Easterling lying in the bushes square in the forehead, killing him instantly, and causing his body to tumble out into the path with a loud thump.  
Suddenly the thicket was alive with screams and war cries as scores of Easterlings charged in to surround the beleaguered Rohirrim. Èomer leaped over the heads of two, decapitating one as he did so. He raised his sword on high and waved it about while screaming at the top of his lungs, "GO ILANC! GO!"  
Ilanc needed no urging, seeing as that was obviously the signal. He wheeled his horse about, kicked it hard with his heels and sprinting off into the night. Several arrows flew after, but none hit home. Edoras would hear the tale, whether the patrol survived or not. Èomer lashed out with his boot, catching a man in the face and knocking him on his back, Arwrwas quickly came up and dispatched the man with a quick thrust of his spear. Èomer nodded his thanks and rode over to the thick of things, a score of Easterlings surrounding Tarren, Saethwr and Rhyfelwr. He rode in recklessly, leaning out so that his opposite leg rested on the saddle. He slashed as one, stabbed another, and grunted as his chest collided with another. He fell from his horse and lay on the ground for a moment. He sprung up in time to parry a blow from the black clad Easterling. He slashed in, only to have it blocked by an extremely difficult and awkward hanging parry. Èomer smiled grimly. 'Fancies himself a swords master, eh?' he thought to himself, 'Even the best have a little more to learn.' He backed away slightly, giving himself some space to maneuver in. Cold eyes watched him from the slit in the spiked helmet. He made as if to move to the left, twitched right, then leapt at the man's left flank. Another spectacular parry met him, he hadn't thrown off his opponent. 'He's a lot better than I gave him credit for.' Èomer thought dully. No matter. Èomer was willing to fight dirty if he had too.  
He came in low, strengthening his hands against the downward slash he knew would come. It came, and he moved in closer, forcing his blade and the blade of his enemy up. He brought his knee into the other's crotch before the Easterling had time to react. The man fell away, stunned, and Èomer dispatched him with a quick thrust. 'Need a few more lessons.' He thought grimly as he moved forward.  
He got another cheap kill by stabbing one spearman in the back as he moved in. Two Easterlings with crossbows noticed him then, and he had to quickly lift his shield as two heavy bolts flew in. He leaped forward and slashed one's throat before they could reload, and he bashed the other in the head with his shield, causing him to drop the crossbow. The second Easterling held his head tightly where Èomer's shield had connected, and Èomer finished him with another hit from the shield.  
Then a heavy hit crashed into the space between his shoulder blades. Èomer rolled with the hit, coming up on his feet several feet away. He whirled around to find an Easterling holding a broken spear. The other moved in swiftly, smashing his spear shaft against Èomer's upraised shield. The blow made Èomer's entire arm go numb. The Easterling moved in again, and Èomer, instead of blocking with his shield, chopped the shaft in half. He brought his shield up in a swinging uppercut, cracking the man's neck. The Easterling went limp. Èomer stood up, looking for another opponent.  
There were none. Nearly two-dozen Easterlings lay dead on the ground, and the rest could be heard fleeing into the thicket. Èomer was in shock, a small group of less than eight had defeated scores of these Easterlings where two villages with nearly a hundred warriors total could not. Then it hit him.  
This was another warning.  
Turn back. Do not meddle in my affairs.  
He snorted. Very impressive warning, allow twenty-three soldiers to get slaughtered to the loss of no Rohirrim. He could have laughed aloud with relief. But then he remembered Tarren's village the previous night. This was no laughing matter. Whoever that giant shadow was, it could have easily squashed them like insects, but it didn't. Why?  
"Someone obviously doesn't think too highly of us," Rhyfelwr said dryly. He dropped down from his horse and flipped one of the corpses over with his boot. It had a browned face, it was as short and stocky as the average Rohirrim. He looked up at his companions, "They didn't even bother to send the big men after us."  
Èomer shook his head gravely, "No Rhyfelwr, this is a warning. Look at what these Easterlings did to those two villages. They could have easily quashed us, but they didn't"  
"Why?"  
Èomer shook his head and walked over to where his horse was grazing, "I wish I knew Rhyfelwr, I wish I knew."  
Arwrwas wiped his long sword clean on one of the Easterling's black cloaks, "It doesn't matter. These people are dangerous," he looked over at Èomer, "You were right to send Ilanc back. We're going to need all the help we can get."  
Dialgar, standing outside the circle of talk, noticed that there were only five, plus him. He looked all around and saw no sign of any other Patrolmen. With a sudden flash of realization, he shouted, "Marwdyn! He's not here!"  
Rhyfelwr stood up straight, "What?"  
"DAMN IT!" screamed Èomer, "That traitorous bastard!"  
Rhyfelwr walked over and grabbed Èomer by the shoulders, "Ilanc can take care of himself. We need you here, now Èomer. You have to have faith."  
Èomer nodded, "I just hope I didn't condemn Ilanc to death."  
Arwrwas shrugged, "Perhaps Marwdyn became separated, and nothing more. He may not even be traitor after all. Maybe he was killed."  
Rhyfelwr nodded vigorously, "Yes, Èomer. Don't trouble yourself with it just yet. Come," he gestured towards the opposite edge of the thicket, "We have to get out of here before true night falls."  
The others reluctantly followed after in the gathering dark.  
  
More than a league away, a body lay in the grass. A horse grazed at some grass nearby, paying no mind to the death of its owner. Ilanc's sightless eyes stared up into the night sky, a knife protruding from his back and his throat cut. Someone had heard of his errand, but it was by no fault of Ilanc's. No, Ilanc's murderer had leaned in close, listening to every word Èomer said on that day before. Marwdyn the Dunlending pulled his throwing knife from the back of the young man, wiped it on the dead grass, mounted his horse and rode to Edoras, concocting a wild tale in his head as he did. 


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The statement that there were no casualties was not entirely true. While no man had died, Dialgar had two broken ribs, Saethwr had a tremendous gash from ear to chest, and Èomer had a spectacular bruise between his shoulders. Also, Èomer's horse had been killed in the fracas, leaving him with no means of travel. It was decided that he would double up on Tarren's horse with Dialgar, while Tarren rode Dialgar's horse. The big man nearly looked comical on the smaller horse, which barely stood up to his weight.

At nearly midnight they made it through the thicket, at which point they ceased their minimal speed and burst into a full gallop, determined to put a few miles between themselves and the surviving enemy before they stopped.

It was merely two hours from dawn when they finally stopped. Èomer wearily climbed down from the big horse, reached back up and helped the weary Dialgar down to the ground. He flung himself to the ground and shut his eyes, only to be kicked awake once more.

He looked up to see Saethwr's disfigured form above him. "Come on, we have to get moving."

Èomer closed his eyes and dropped back on the ground, "Give me a good reason and I will."

Saethwr snorted with annoyance and yanked Èomer up by his long hair. He turned him to the north-east, "That's why."

There was an army of Easterlings. A long black column of Easterlings. On its flanks rode nearly a hundred horsemen. Coming up the rear were half a dozen trolls. A great many of the men were short and swarthy, like the ones the Patrol had just fought. But more than half were tall and fair, as the Easterling that Èomer had seen lying in Tarren's village. Èomer gained his feet slowly, in disbelief.

He shook his head, "Out of the frying pan, into the fire."

Saethwr smiled grimly, "That seems to be the luck we're having on this trip, eh?"

They mounted their horses once more, but this time they gave Tarren a larger horse. They pounded across the Eastfold as fast as their weary horses could carry them. Èomer leaned down into Dialgar's neck, shielding his face from the wind. A snow-storm blew up, making their flight even more miserable.

After a while the horses began to slack, and then, when Dialgar's horse collapsed under Rhyfelwr, they stopped. Èomer made his way over to Rhyfelwr. "Where the hell are we?" he shouted above the wind.

Rhyfelwr shrugged and clapped his hands together to ward off the cold.

"Those Easterlings were headed somewhere. Is there a town nearby?"

"I could tell you if I knew. My guess is that you're right, and if that's true, we can bolster their defenses. At least we can sit tight until help arrives."

Èomer frowned, "If help arrives. I still can't shake off this nasty feeling that Marwdyn had some malicious intent. And Ilanc is frightened and alone; he'll be an easy target."

"I told you not to worry about it. We're only a week out, and we meandered a bit, and at the rate he's going, he'll be back in about two or three days. We can expect reinforcements before weeks end, ten days at the maximum. Don't worry, everything will be fine."

Èomer didn't believe it for a second. Something about the look in Rhyfelwr's eyes told him that the older man didn't believe a word that he had said. And that big shadow he had seen. . . he had a feeling that even if help arrived, it would be too late and not enough. That shadow was obviously powerful, and the Easterlings with it were nothing to dismiss either. His thoughts drifted to the bodies of the brave Rohirrim lying in puddles of their own blood, their sightless eyes full of fear. He thought of the jolt that had hit him when he tried to touch that dead Easterling. No, the game was over. It wasn't a matter of if he would die out on these plains, but when he would fall with his eyes full of fear, his blood leaking to mingle with his other brave comrades.

Now he realized his fear within the walls of Edoras was justified. Rohan was doomed while it remained scattered as it was. He pushed the thought away. He wasn't going to let his excessive pessimism bring everyone else down with him. He nodded to Rhyfelwr and walked back over to Dialgar, who was still clutching his broken ribs.

They had to put Dialgar's horse down. The poor thing was weary from the weight of its huge passengers and the constant running, it was clear that it would die from exposure before it ever regained the strength to even get up. Dialgar insisted on doing it himself, and the others bowed before the demand.

They left Dialgar alone with his horse for a few moments. Dialgar, tears streaming down his cheeks, patted the horse's neck a few times, and then plunged his sword into its neck. It died instantly and suffered almost no pain. Dialgar withdrew the sword and wiped it on the grass. He took five hairs from the horse's mane and stowed them in his pocket. He then leaned against the still-warm body and wept.

Èomer wept as well. True, his horse had died also, but it died in combat, killed by an Easterling. Dialgar had to kill his own horse, and he had to kill it because of something he had done. Èomer felt terribly guilty. He moved over to Dialgar and patted the man on the back.

Dialgar spun around. His eyes were full of tears as he looked up into Èomer's solemn face. He buried his face in Èomer's chest and cried. Èomer rubbed the other man's back soothingly.

Saethwr, being the practical one, turned to Rhyfelwr. "What do we do now?" He asked, "We're missing two horses and no warriors. Some of us might have to walk."

Rhyfelwr shook his head, "I will leave no man behind to walk. That would be the same as killing him."

Èomer looked up, his face set. He broke loose from Dialgar, stood and turned to Rhyfelwr. "I will walk, and Dialgar will walk with me."

Rhyfelwr shook his head, "Kinsman, you least of all will I abandon to these frozen wastes. Théoden King would kill me, should you die and I could have prevented it."

"Nonetheless, I will be walking and Dialgar will walk with me."

Rhyfelwr opened his mouth for further argument, but Tarren put a hand in front of his mouth. The big man looked directly into Rhyfelwr's eyes, "Èomer is old enough to know what is best. Take his advice, Rhyfelwr, or I foresee ill things." The look on Tarren's face seemed guarantee enough for that. Rhyfelwr shrugged, "All right then," he said to no one, and turned to Èomer, "Are you sure that you want to go through with this?"

Èomer nodded, "We'll find you in a couple of days. Don't worry."

Rhyfelwr nodded, "It's your funeral I suppose," he turned to the others, "Alright! We're moving out!"

All but Èomer and Dialgar mounted their horses and rode off to the south-east. As they rapidly disappeared from sight, Dialgar turned to Èomer, "How did you know I was going to volunteer?"

Èomer flashed a rare smile at Dialgar, "This may be my first patrol, but I'm no fool. I've seen Rohirrim do the most foolish things after they've been forced to kill their own horse. It is the cruelest thing that will ever happen to you," he looked at the other's tear-stained face, "I can help though. If you know your horse has been given a decent burial, it makes it a little easier. Let's get started."

They labored for nearly three hours with their sword blades to dig a grave for Dialgar's horse. They lowered the horse in and as Dialgar shifted mounds of dirt in, Èomer carved these words onto a piece of bark:

_Beneath these stones lies a swift steed_

_'Twas not strong enough for the task at hand,_

_But ever it would strive for its masters affections,_

_Yet he was forced to strike it down,_

_For its pain was too much for him to bear,_

_For Firemane_

Èomer spread grass and such leaves as could be found over the grave so it would not be despoiled by marauding Easterlings. The pair hoisted their packs and marched in the direction their comrades had gone. They walked with speed, nearly four leagues by nightfall. They decided to rest a while under the cover of some scrubby bush.

Dialgar fell asleep instantly, but Èomer lay awake, listening to the familiar sounds of a Rohan winter's eve. But there was a sound in the quiet background, a sound that was altogether new to Èomer. A chant of some sort. He strained his ears, trying to catch fragments of the chant.

It grew progressively louder. He nudged Dialgar, who he knew had sharper ears. The younger man blinked wearily, looking around.

"Hrm?"

Èomer held a finger to his lips, "Shh, listen."

The young man listened intensely to the night. His eyes grew wide as he turned to Èomer.

"We should go."

"Why?"

But Èomer got his answer when the chant became clear in his hearing.

"OH-EE-TAH! HEE-RON! OH-EE-TAH! SAU-RON!"

"Ah," he managed weakly. He grabbed his gear and half-stood in the dark. Beside him, he felt Dialgar do the same.

"Stay here," he whispered, "I'm going to have a look."

Dialgar opened his mouth to protest, but backed down at the look Èomer gave him. Èomer thrust his blanket and food into Dialgar's hands and crept off through the brush.

Èomer stole up to the edge of the vegetation, and looked out over the wide plains of the Eastfold. The same column of Easterlings the patrol had encountered earlier was marching out in the open. Each man carried a torch, and the firelight shining off their dark armor made them look like beetles. Èomer stood for a few moments in awe of his enemy. A noise in the brush startled him in to movement.

He dropped to the ground, spear held in one hand out in front of him. Trying not to breath, he watched as an Easterling horsemen rode up on his right. The man looked about carefully, scouting the flanks. As he rode past where Èomer hid, Èomer sprang up and jammed his spear into the man's leg.

The Easterling fell off his horse and cried out, but he was stifled with a boot to the face. He retaliated, almost instinctively, and by sheer luck hit Èomer in the kneecap with a metal-shod foot. Èomer fell to one knee and cried out. The Easterling, though a bit stunned, came up with a round-house punch that caught Èomer in the sternum.

Èomer collapsed onto his back. The Easterling drew Èomer's spear out of his leg and stabbed at Èomer with it. At the last moment, Èomer rolled onto his newly-injured knee and scissored his good leg up into the Easterling's crotch.

The man fell over backwards, moaning in pain. Èomer dragged himself up to his knees and drew his dagger. He leapt at the prone figure of the Easterling. At the last moment, the Easterling smashed the shaft of the spear into Èomer's arm. Èomer dropped the dagger and shrunk back, clutching his arm.

The Easterling drew his scimitar, the faint clash of metal barely audible over the tramp of booted feet. The Easterling charged at Èomer, who brought up his shield to deflect the blow.

Èomer's shield was made of wood, with metal inlaid on the edges, and in the very center of the circle, and along the edges of the painted horse. The Easterling's scimitar managed to miss all of these, and due to the force of the blow, it became stuck in the wood.

For a few moments, the two men engaged in a desperate tug-of-war. Èomer hooked his right foot behind the man's left leg and pulled towards himself. The Easterling fell over backwards, and his scimitar came out of the shield. Èomer wasted no time and leapt at the man, punching him in the kidneys and groin, and battering him with the shield. The once-fair face was now swollen, bruised and bloody. In a last desperate move, the man kicked Èomer in the groin.

It nearly worked. Èomer rolled over off the Easterling, who sat up as quickly as he could and groped about for a weapon. He found Èomer's spear and turned back to Èomer. He grinned madly, feeling victory was finally in his grasp.

The Easterling looked rather shocked as the cold steel of Èomer's sword pierced his torso on the left side of his chest on a slightly upward angle. Blood frothed past his lips. He looked at Èomer with a look of hatred mixed with surprise. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and he fell over with a gurgle.

Èomer sat there for a moment, catching his breath. He leaned over and pried his spear out of the dead Easterling's fingers. Leaning heavily on his spear, he hobbled about the clearing, picking up his dagger and his shield. He put the dagger back into its sheath and strapped the shield to his back. Looking around, he saw that his enemy's horse had wandered off, and was grazing a furlong away on a hilltop just outside of the torch-light's range.

Taking care to stay hidden, he stealthily moved towards the horse. He came up on its left side, slowly stroking its coat as he did so, and whispering softly to it in what his people called 'the Horse Tongue'.

Slowly and gingerly, he mounted the animal. His left knee pained him greatly. He cast his arms around the horse's neck, and steered it with his feet. Carefully, he picked his way back to where Dialgar was waiting.

When Dialgar heard the sound of hooves, he raised his spear, ready to throw it at the next thing that came out of the brush. Èomer called softly,

"It's all clear! It's only me, Èomer."

Dialgar lowered his spear, but only slightly, "Èomer? Where have you suddenly acquired a horse?" He gasped as Èomer rode out into the clearing, "And a fine one at that! That'll be one of our own then, if I'm not mistaken. No Easterling could breed a creature like that!"

It was indeed a fine animal, a chestnut stallion, tall and strong, and hardy as well. The armor that an Easterling wore weighed nearly forty pounds, and the men themselves were no light-weights. Èomer had not noticed it before.

"Get up here Dialgar. No, not in back, I'll move. I can't steer him; I'm too tired." Èomer said as he wiggled back until he was just barely on the edge of the saddle.

Dialgar nodded, "Perhaps you might want to move back a little more. The ride won't do much good for your man-hood, eh?"

Èomer nodded vigorously, "The Easterling didn't do much good for it either. They are hardy warriors, their horsemen."

"I do not doubt that," said Dialgar, "If they can take two towns in as many nights without losing more than fifty men, they must be good." The younger man hesitated, "But, they are men of flesh and blood, aren't they? They aren't ghosts?"

Èomer snorted, "That ridiculous! If they were ghosts, then I would be dead now, wouldn't I?"

"I didn't mean ghosts so much as I meant demons, or servants of the old evil. You know, the one that came before even Gondor."

Èomer shuddered at the prospect, "I doubt it." But wasn't sure, even to himself. Dialgar swung his leg up and mounted the horse. Èomer leaned forward onto his back,

"Dialgar, take care not to ride within sight of the Easterling column. Their horsemen have spread out on either side, looking for stray Rohirrim, such as us."

Dialgar nodded and set off at a light gallop. Within twenty minutes, they had passed the head of the Easterling column. Directly at the head, surrounded by trolls and huge men, there was a curtained palanquin. Inside, Èomer knew, was that huge shadow that he had seen two nights before. A cold chill rushed across him and he clutched at his heart.

The figure appeared again in his mind. This time it spoke to him, in a low, menacing voice that brought to Èomer's mind the image of winter on burial mounds:

_'Thou art fool. I have given thee fair warning, and yet you persist. What must I do to make thou flee? Tell me now!'_

Èomer shook his head weakly. It drew itself up, with something like indigence,

_'You dare defy me? Dotard! Swine of the horse kingdom! You shall pay for your insolence!'_

"Dialgar," Èomer croaked, "Wheel right, wheel hard right. Don't stop, for any reason."

_'Put as many leagues as you want between you and I. It will only delay the inevitable.'_

Èomer pressed his head close against Dialgar's back and shut his eyes tight. The younger man reined the horse hard to the right, away from the column. They could hear shouting, and approaching hoof-steps. The voice came again, smugly.

_'Little Prince, you cannot escape me. Even now, your doom fast approaches.'_

Dialgar kicked the horse, and it sprung away. Shafts thudded into the ground nearby, more noise of pursuit came from behind. Dialgar leaned close to the horse's ear, and whispered into it. It galloped faster.

Èomer hunched his shoulders up as far as he could, to block his ears from the voice. But it continued, mocking him in his head. He groped under his jerkin, for . . . what? What did he have on him that could possibly do him any good? The voice continued.

A shaft caught Dialgar in the foot, and the man cried out in anguish. There was no way to pull it out in the present situation, so he painfully let it be. Just behind the pair, hoofs beat heavily on the barren plains, and the war-cries of the Easterlings could be clearly heard. Another volley swept over them. Èomer's fingers closed over something beneath his jerkin, and its cool smooth surface soothed the raw skin of his hand. The phial!

He pulled it from beneath his jerkin and held it aloft. Nothing happened, save an arrow nicking his wrist, just below the thumb. He gasped and nearly dropped the phial. The noises of the hooves were closer now. Dialgar moaned with pain and despair as he pointed ahead of the horse. On the crest of a hill less a league or so away, there was a line of horsemen, riding slowly across their path. The pair were finished.

Èomer closed his eyes and tried to picture Edoras in his mind, his cousin Theoden, his sister Eowyn, and his uncle. The glass in under his hand warmed slightly, and behind him, the cries changed instantly from victorious to fearful. Èomer opened his eyes and found that the phial in his hand was glowing with bright, white light.

The line of horses ahead of them abruptly changed course and hastened towards the duo. Èomer risked a glance back, and found that the Easterling cavalry had momentarily slackened their pursuit. Several of them were shielding their eyes against the sudden light that had chased the darkness away for many hundreds of yards around Èomer.

"What in the name of?" began Dialgar, but Èomer prodded the other man in the back to silence him.

"Don't slow down! There are still horsemen ahead!"

"But they aren't afraid of the light as the Easterlings are," replied the other.

"They may be of a hardier breed, don't slow down."

"I don't know how much longer the horse can carry on like this, Èomer."

Behind them, the Easterlings were inching forward nervously, pushed on by the nameless dread behind them, but unwilling to approach the elven-light. The former won out after a few moments, however, and they galloped on at full tilt towards the two men. They continued to fire arrows at the two Rohirrim, but now their shots went wider.

Ahead of Èomer and Dialgar, the blurred shapes of the riders came into clearer focus. They were heavily armed, each bearing a long spear, and Èomer began to wonder how they were going to break through the line. As they approached the edge of the circle of light, Èomer held the light higher, in hopes that they would soon take fright and break off. In a moment, they were through, and Èomer found, to his pleasant shock, that at the center of the line was Rhyfelwr.

His cousin was flanked by Saethwr and Arwrwas, and stretching out to either side of them were almost a hundred Eastfolders, armored in chain-mail and tough leather, bearing nine-foot ash spears. Èomer could have fainted with relief. He felt Dialgar let out a deep sigh as they passed through the ranks of the Eastfolders. Dialgar brought the horse to a walk, and then slowly, gracefully, fell off the horse. Taking care not to step on the Westfolder, Èomer moved up and wheeled the horse around to watch the battle. He was still holding the phial above his head.

The battle as Èomer saw it was a rout. The Rohirrim had stretched into a line one man thick on the flanks and two thick in the center behind Rhyfelwr. The flanks curved around the edges of the Easterling formation in a pincer movement, while Rhyfelwr led the rest in a wedge straight through the Easterling center. Fatally surprised by the sudden attack, the Easterlings were swept away. Èomer watched as Rhyfelwr took the largest Easterling through the throat with a thrust of his spear. Elsewhere, the Rohirrim were casting their spears at the horse-archers and finishing those close in with quick hacks from their swords. Èomer smiled with tired pride; the Easterlings, though adept horsemen, were no match for the Rohirrim.

Very quickly, the Easterlings found themselves outmatched, and, very shortly after that, found themselves outnumbered. Those at the rear of the formation turned and fled as swiftly as they could, but those on the flanks were beset from all sides by the Rohirrim on the flanks and by Rhyfelwr's wedge driving down the center. No mercy was shown by the horsemasters, and the grassy plains of Rohan were awash with blood and scattered with limbs. It was all over within a few minutes.

Rhyfelwr walked his horse back across the plain to Èomer. He smiled wearily at the younger man, who returned it as best he could.

"It's all over now, cousin," said Rhyfelwr, "You are safe."

Èomer shook his head wearily. "There is an army yet unfought behind those horsemen, and at its head rides a great sorcerer." He lowered his arm, and the phial went out, leaving the two men in darkness. "I do not think we can defeat him."

"Everything will look better by daylight, cousin." Rhyfelwr looked at him with grave concern etched into his features. "We must return to the town of Gaepfeld, if this army is as great as you say it is."

"It is," Èomer said slowly. He slumped against the neck of the horse and knew no more.

Marwdyn pressed his face against his horse's mane and spurred it on to greater speeds. Even with the wind howling in his ears, he could hear the voice of his master, a voice that brought to his mind the idea of winter on burial mounds, urging him forward, urging him to do his bidding.

He was a day out from Edoras. When he arrived, he was to stop, at all costs, Rohan's armies from gathering until his master's hold on the land was too firm to loosen. He was confident in his ability to do so, but one face preyed on his mind: Théodred, son of the king. Where others fell under the spell of his tongue, granted to him by his master, Théodred stood firm. Èomer and Théodred were close, too close. Théodred would attempt to mount a rescue unless given a direct order from Théoden not to do so. As the mountains rose ever higher before him, Marwdyn knew that his labors were about to begin.


End file.
